Chop Shop

Chop Shop, as the title indicates, is a place where cars are chopped up and used for spare parts. In this case, the setting Queens, New York in a neighborhood notorious for criminal activity. The star is twelve year old street kid named Alejandro(Alejandro Polanco) who is recruited by a repair shop to steal auto parts, mostly from parked cars. He ends up living at the garage with his sister Isamar(Isamar Gonzalez). She works selling food from a van but her brother soon discovers that she is also working as a prostitute in order to save enough money to buy a food truck of her own.

Alejandro adds to his income by lifting hubcaps to sell and also deals with pirated Dvds. Together, he and his sister make enough cash to buy a van but it needs extensive repairs and they don't have the resources to fix it.

The two actors playing brother and sister are so talented and the streets of New York City so gritty and authentic that I was totally absorbed by this film.

I enjoyed Ramin Bahrani's Man Push Cart, and this film is equally good. This slice of life is almost a documentary about how life on the edges is lived.

Alejandro Polanco and Isamar Gonzales do an excellent job as a 12-year-old brother and a 16-year-old sister who live in a small room over an auto shop. There are no parents; they are on their own surviving. Ali supplements his income by stealing auto parts, selling bootleg DVDs and selling candy on the subway. Izzie supplements her income working a food truck by selling herself. They are trying to make money to but their own truck.

One is tempted to express outrage at the fact that these two children are left to fend on their own, and certainly one can be very upset that Izzie sells her body to willing truckers, but the fact is that this exists today in the world's richest country, not some underdeveloped land. Save the outrage and do something.

Ramin Bahrani sets up a scene early on in Chop Shop that immediately had me identifying with where the character of Ale (Alejandro Polanco) and his friend were coming from. The two of them get on a subway, and as soon as the doors close they ask if they could have everyone's attention for a moment, and that they are selling candy bars or M&M's or something, and then they proceed to sell some bars. If you (as I) have ever been on a subway in New York city, at any time, this is the kind of situation that happens so often you almost don't notice it. Often the people on a subway will see kids like these or minorities selling something or announcing and talking about something on a subway and not pay them any mind. Bahrani's focus isn't necessarily just on kids who hock things for sale on subway rides, but on survival and the state of being one is in when in the lower class in America. It is, subsequently in his hands, thoughtful and heartbreaking, usually at once.

To compare it to Pixote or the Bicycle Thief isn't too far of a leap (actually in the latter at least the father and son have each other), though Bahrani is specific in his intentions in his documentary style. We care about this character Ali, no older than eleven and working in a car shop cleaning some cars and helping take apart others, and his sister who comes from out of town to stay with him. But it's not simply because we're force-fed any clichés, aside from, you know, a brother and sister (more-so the brother) trying to take care of one another. Bahrani makes the story accessible through the simple aspiration Ali has, the kind of goal that is possible attainable in his situation: saving up enough to buy a used food truck that Ali and Isamar can operate themselves.

It's all Ali is working for, but what Bahrani shows us in brutal detail is this work, what Ali has to do to make it happen even if its distasteful things like ripping hubcaps off of tires from cars in Shea Stadium or, at one point, stealing a purse in a desperate moment. This makes it all the more serious an issue when Ale sees what his sister does for money on the side at night, doing sexual favors for men in an abandoned truck on the side of the road. He doesn't mention it and pushes it aside, but its always something that adds to the tension, something Ale wants to protect his sister from. It adds to the tragedy when Ale finds out the real cost of what it will take to make the food truck into a profit-maker, a cost that just further adds to the anguish that he just internalizes.

One could look immediately at the fact that Ale is an orphan in such a neighborhood as the one in the area of Queens the film was shot in- naturally, as with a work of neo-neo realism (lets just call it realism), featuring practically all non-professional actors in the parts of the mechanics and workers and people on the streets- but Bahrani is focused more-so on the here and the now, and that is what makes Chop Shop so immediate and heartfelt. Not a trace of melodrama is in the film, barely even music accompaniment aside from the live Latino music coming from the cars and radios. Sometimes Bahrani will focus on a very subtle moment that makes it pronounced in further scenes, like the way Ale is awake but acts like he's asleep the first night after he witnesses Isamar's late-night tryst, and we see as she slinks into bed she probably knows he's awake but neither can say a word. Or, in a lot of other scenes, poetic touches that seem seamless, like when the man shows Ale how feeding the pigeons work.

It's rough and gritty, as you can expect, and it doesn't give much hope for its main characters despite the few moments of happiness sprinkled about. It's also a superbly shot hand-held film, where the technique, as with a lot of movies made in its urban-set tone and approach, informs and compliment the subjects on screen and what they're doing, but it also is never recklessly shot or too flashy. The filmmaker has a superb 'real-life' cast (Ale was plucked from a NYC public school without any experience) and knows how to not waste a shot, while at the same time achieve a brutal artistry with just showing what he shows. It's not City of God or Pixote; it's its own little masterpiece on a character or characters we usually would just not give a second look to (or a first one barely) on our way in a city such as New York. If you're not moved by Ale and his daily struggles, I don't know what to do for you.

Chop Shop, the second feature from Ramin Bahrani, is a rare breed. It is an American film that tells a story not usually found in American cinema, the story of the of a minority living in poverty. It is a work of simple beauty. Shot on location in Queens, New York in the shadows of Shea Stadium, Chop Shop is neo-realism to the core. Featuring a cast of non-actors, it has more in common with Vittorio De Sica's classic Bicycle Thieves than anything made in the United States. There is no score or soundtrack, all the music and sounds are diagetic. Watching it feels like watching a great foreign film, it takes us to another world because it is so uncommon to see. However this other world is not post-World War II Rome or Istanbul or New Delhi, it is contemporary New York City.

Bahrani tells the story of Alejandro (Alejandro Polanco), better known as Ale. He is a 12-year-old Latin-American kid with no parents or family unit to watch after him. He lives in a tiny room upstairs in the auto shop that he also works at. He shares the same bed with his teenage sister Isamar (Isamar Gonzales). Neither of them have made it passed second grade. Ale, though young, is tough and mature. He acts as the head of the small family. He hooks his sister up with a job, and he himself does anything he can to make a buck when not working at the chop shop. He sells bootleg DVDs on the streets and candy in subways. He searches for scrap auto parts and sells them to the many auto shops lining the street where he lives.

Alejandro is heartbroken when he learns his sister is working nights as a prostitute. He himself becomes progressively disinterested in abiding by the law. He begins to steal, first car parts and later wallets. Like Antonio, the desperate protagonist in Bicycle Thieves, we cannot blame Ale for becoming a thief. It is merely survival. Ale and Isamar save up in hopes of buying a food vending van for $4,500. They see the van as their way out, and there is much optimism. However, as is usually the case in neo-realism, we know this will only lead to disappointment.

Polanco's riveting performance is what gives legitimacy to Chop Shop's realism. Here is a 12-year-old character that needs to be believably independent and vulnerably naive. Whether he is directing cars to the shop, selling movies and Snickers bars or playing with his sister in their scanty room, it is authentic.

Chop Shop is a sobering reminder that not all American children grow up in a land of opportunity. Ale's lifestyle is what many in middle-class white America consider 'third world'. They act cognizant the poverty and deprivation in foreign lands while sipping their coffee and reading the New York Times on Sunday morning, but make themselves blind to it on their own streets. Once you watch Chop Shop, you will think differently of the kids peddling candy on the subway.

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Can't say this wasn't made well. At a recent film festival the director admitted some scenes took 30 takes. And there isn't the slightest indication he didn't get exactly what he wanted. But this is an oddly non-Hispanic film in the same way West Side Story was many years ago. Both the leads, a brother-sister team, are excellent and memorable in their parts. The setting, a sort of underground car repair district in Queens, is completely foreign to most people and is worth the price of admission by itself. But there's something unsatisfying about the key issue in the film, namely, what the sister feels she has to do to get by. I can understand the brother's reaction, but it just seems a little too easily come by to me. The movie seems to suggest that people like these don't need our help, that they'll find a way to survive without the usual support systems. I wouldn't encourage anyone to believe that. There would be far more resistance to the choices made here than depicted. Other than that as an entertainment it works well. As an accurate depiction of a culture, not so well, I think.